three evenings in the representation, which is almost as bad as a Chinese play.  The present director of the conservatoire and opera, a Prussian, Herr von Bulow, is a friend of Wagner.  There are formed here in town two parties:  the Wagner and the conservative, the new and the old, the modern and classical; only the Wagnerites do not admit that their admiration of Beethoven and the older composers is less than that of the others, and so for this reason Bulow has given us more music of Beethoven than of any other composer.  One thing is certain, that the royal orchestra is trained to a high state of perfection:  its rendition of the grand operas and its weekly concerts in the Odeon cannot easily be surpassed.  The singers are not equal to the orchestra, for Berlin and Vienna offer greater inducements; but there are people here who regard this orchestra as superlative.  They say that the best orchestras in the world are in Germany; that the best in Germany is in Munich; and, therefore, you can see the inevitable deduction.  We have another parallel syllogism.  The greatest pianist in the world is Liszt; but then Herr Bulow is actually a better performer than Liszt; therefore you see again to what you must come.  At any rate, we are quite satisfied in this provincial capital; and, if there is anywhere better music, we don’t know it.  Bulow’s orchestra is not very large,—­there are less than eighty pieces, but it is so handled and drilled, that when we hear it give one of the symphonies of Beethoven or Mendelssohn, there is little left to be desired.  Bulow is a wonderful conductor, a little man, all nerve and fire, and he seems to inspire every instrument.  It is worth something to see him lead an orchestra:  his baton is magical; head, arms, and the whole body are in motion; he knows every note of the compositions; and the precision with which he evokes a solitary note out of a distant instrument with a jerk of his rod, or brings a wail from the concurring violins, like the moaning of a pine forest in winter, with a sweep of his arm, is most masterly.  About the platform of the Odeon are the marble busts of the great composers; and while the orchestra is giving some of Beethoven’s masterpieces, I like to fix my eyes on his serious and genius-full face, which seems cognizant of all that is passing, and believe that he has a posthumous satisfaction in the interpretation of his great thoughts.

The managers of the conservatoire also give vocal concerts, and there are, besides, quartette soiries; so that there are few evenings without some attraction.  The opera alternates with the theater two or three times a week.  The singers are, perhaps, not known in Paris and London, but some of them are not unworthy to be.  There is the baritone, Herr Kindermann, who now, at the age of sixty-five, has a superb voice and manner, and has had few superiors in his time on the German stage.  There is Frau Dietz, at forty-five, the best of actresses, and with a still fresh and